


Orpheus

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:15:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, at the end of his options, throws caution to the wind and contacts Metatron to send a special TV message to Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orpheus

Dean blames the sixth beer at 3:00 AM for the idea, but the eighth beer for the call to Omaha’s own OWW2 News for any info they might have on one of their former employees.

He’s surprised he’d even remembered the name of the station from when Cas recounted his story of how he found and then released Metatron, beaten and broken but none the less alive, back into the wild. He’d been angry then, that Cas had let him go, but he understood, too.

He’d let Lucifer free if it meant getting Cas back now.

And fuck, God knows Dean’s let Crowley scurry off intact ten too many times by this point, so he can’t really talk, in any case.

Still, this has to be the stupidest thing Dean’s ever done, willingly thrown his lot in with possibly the worst person in the world, a dude who had _literally killed him_ , to help him get back his best friend who the same douchebag had once double crossed and used to destroy Heaven. And all this is going off the account of _Crowley’s_ dalliance in Cas’ head.

Nice. Smart, Winchester.

The plan is so stupid Dean expects Sam to reject it on principle, but Dean underestimates Sam’s understanding of what getting back Cas means to him. Dean doesn’t know exactly how much Sam has clued into Dean’s feelings about Cas—certainly doesn’t ever want to _ask_ him about it, fuck no—but even Dean isn’t dense enough in his emotional avoidance to think Sam doesn’t know far more than Dean is comfortable with. His brother just nods and asks what has to be done to track Metadouche down.

And, of course, they find the sleazy neckbeard in a sketchy bar in suburban Omaha wearing a fucking _fedora,_ as if that makes him _less_ conspicuous.

“Hey there, Gamer Gate,” Dean drawls with no restraint in the contempt in his voice,” as he sits down on one side of Metatron, Sam flanking him on the other so the guy can’t up and leave. Dean’s knows two things that will give him an upper hand in this showdown: 1) the guy’s human now, and 2) he’s a yellow-ass coward. Dean knows the threat of brute violence is a cheap tactic, but probably the most effective one in this case, and one he doesn’t give a shit about taking advantage of.

Dean smirks at the gun barrel Sam has covertly jabbed into Metatron’s side.

He plasters on his best fake smile. “Have time for a little chat?”

 

***

 

Dean grits his teeth through the entire conversation, letting Sam do most of the talking. He hates having to reveal Cas’ vulnerabilities to this guy who’s exploited them time and time again. When Metatron’s smarmy face break into a smug grin, saying, “So he took my advice to heart after all,” Dean can’t hold back from twisting the asshole’s hand into a painful hold.

“Shut the fuck up,” he seethes, but he knows Metatron has gotten the victory he wanted.

At least he agrees to help, in the end, but not before Dean’s threatened to scalp him at least twice more.

“So you’ll do it?” Dean confirms, because he does not need any crossed wires on this.

“Send your poor Cas a personal broadcast into his subconscious hideaway? Well, since you’ve asked so nicely,” he sneers, and Dean wants to punch his fucking _face_ in, “I can give it a try.”

 

***

 

The camera’s rolling, Sam and Metadouche are successfully kicked out of the room (Sam, of course, with a pistol nicely trained on the sketchy fuck), so it’s now or never.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, uh, I don’t know if this is gonna work or not, but here’s hoping you can hear me, Cas,” Dean gives a weak little smile and wave, but aborts the motion halfway through and drops his hand awkwardly to his knee, where he rubs the denim nervously. “I don’t really know what’s going on in there,” he continues, “what’s it’s been like for you these past few months, but here it’s been… It’s been Hell, man. It's—”

He stops, hardly knowing how to describe this _feeling_ in his chest, this _ache_ of something missing that he knows has nothing to do with Amara. Oh, can can still feel her distant pull, that emptiness encroaching, but it’s been muted ever since the angels put a whammy on her. But no—ever since he found out about what Cas had been driven to do, a new hole had been opened up. Or, maybe it had always been there, ever since Cas first raised him from hell and stood too close but not close enough. His throat burns with all the words left unsaid, his skin buzzes with a stinging sort of static, a current with no grounding, no release.

He clenches his jaw to steal himself, but he still flounders. “I miss you,” he spills out in a rush, unable to stop it. “I—We both miss you, Sam ‘n’ me. It’s not the same without you here, you gotta know. And I don’t mean just on hunts 'cause you’re an angel, fuck that. I mean _everywhere_ , all the time, it's—we need you. I—I need you,” he admits, like he did that fateful night in Lucifer’s crypt, years ago now. He got through to Cas then, however briefly, so he _has_ to believe he can again.

“Not for anything but you just bein’… you,” Dean adds, because he doesn’t want Cas thinking he only needs him as some sort of tool, a _hammer_ like he once accused him of being, a lifetime ago. Sure, Cas had always been handy on a hunt, and saved Sam and him from death too many times to count, but none of that even matters compared to what he means as family, to how Dean needs him _just 'cause_.  Just 'cause he’s _Cas_ : his best friend, his brother in arms, his—his potential for so much more, just beyond reach. He needs Cas because Cas is family, and because Cas is _home_.

“I know I’ve never been good at saying it,” he admits, with a guilty grimace, “and fuck knows I’ve been an asshole to you enough for you to hate me ten times over, but still you always seem to—to come back.”

Dean’s never believed in miracles—especially not now, after all he’s been put through—but there was always something about Cas that made Dean _want_ to believe. That made him want to believe in _him_ , despite all odds. Dean’s never been one for faith—faith in God, in himself, it’s never been something accessible to him—but he does have faith in his family, in his friends.  He has faith in _Cas_ , still, after everything, and he needs Cas to know that.

“I—I know I’ve taken that for granted. That you always come back to us,” he shudders out. “To me,” he adds, after a thick swallow. He can’t deny Cas by acknowledging that heavy truth, and the revelation, like it always had, sits sour in Dean’s mouth. Not because he shuns Cas’ devotion to him, because that aching part of him at the pit of his heart craves it, but because Dean can’t believe he deserves it.

“I’ve never believed I deserved anything good coming to me,” he explains, “and I still don’t really, but you—you were always that good thing that seemed to fall into place right when I needed it.” Cas has been a huge source of pain for him, too, but that’s all behind them, Dean thinks. All the betrayals, all the lies and half truths, that’s all forgiven in the face of how much Dean loves him. He _loves_ him, God damn it.

“I know we’ve both fucked up and made our mistakes,” he says, voice lowered. He knows Sam and Metafuck can’t hear him, but still—this feels too intimate for much above a whisper. “But at the end of the day none of that matters,” he pleads. “Nothing matters except _you_ , _here,_ with—with me. And I can't—”

He almost chokes on the swell of saliva in his throat, almost bitter like bile. His hand hurts, and Dean looks down to realise he’s been clenching it this whole time. He slowly uncurls his fist, but doesn’t look up, still too embarrassed or ashamed of what’s to come next. “You saved me, Cas,” he says quietly, “so many times that I can never—I can never make up for it. And I might not ever really understand why you ever bothered except—except I’m starting to, because it’s all I’m clinging to right now, getting you back safe, or what counts for it in our lives. I need you to let me save you like you saved me, because you’re worth it, Cas. It’ll be worth it—all of the pain and shit we’ve been through, everything—it’ll have been worth it if I could have you—”

He looks up then, straight into the black-like lens, willing against reality to see Cas’ reflection looking back at him.

“If I could have you back.”

And that’s it, that’s what it’s all about, really. Killing Lucifer, stopping Amara, that’s all important, he _knows_ that. But somehow it’s hard to care in the face of the Cas-shaped absence he feels at his side, _inside_ him.

“So that’s, um—that’s all I got. I hope it’s enough.”

 

***

 

Castiel’s hand slides down the screen as he closes his eyes, and leans in to rest his forehead on its smooth surface.

“You always are, Dean,” he whispers, and it too, is a promise.


End file.
